


Life Bites

by therunawaypen



Series: Sherlock Tumblr Prompt Fills [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, M/M, References to Supernatural (TV), Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therunawaypen/pseuds/therunawaypen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes family has a secret: they're vampires. Sherlock thinks he's found the perfect donor in John. But Mycroft discovers something about john that could be dangerous to both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Johnlock and Mythea, vampire AU" —anon

There were three things that Sherlock realized when he figured out that John had shot the cabbie:

One, Sherlock had found someone willing to kill for him.

Two, John would become his to keep, no matter what costs.

Three, he _desperately_ wanted to drink his blood.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had ever desired a donor (he tried so hard to push thoughts of Victor from his mind). To him, the thought of limiting himself to a single source of blood was…dull. Even Victor’s blood had become boring after a while. Drinking from unsuspecting cocaine users had given him a thrill for a while, but the subsequent poisoning had nearly cost him his life (and had forced Mycroft to intervene, even if it had led to him meeting DI Lestrade, so the venture wasn’t an entire loss). None the less, Sherlock didn’t “do” donors.

Until John showed up.

Just thought of sinking his fangs into John’s carotid artery (or even better, his femoral) made his mouth water. And John wasn’t helping, making himself seem all the more tantalizing.

“We shouldn’t be giggling at a crime scene.” John chuckled, walking alongside Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t agree more. They shouldn’t be anywhere near a crime scene. They should be squirreled away in 221b, with John laid out on Sherlock’s bed, under Sherlock’s thrall as Sherlock littered his body with bite marks and lapping at his blood.

Now, to convince John to be a willing partner in the affair…

They were interrupted by Mycroft rearing his fat, ugly head. Of course he would feel the need to meddle.

Beside him, John frantically whispered to Sherlock that it had indeed been Mycroft who had kidnapped him and tried to bribe him into spying on Sherlock. The fact had only impressed Sherlock all the more: not many could withstand Mycroft’s thrall.

It took a great deal of control for Sherlock not to pounce on John in that moment and sink his fangs into that lovely, brilliant jugular.

Mycroft, of course, noticed. The entire time their conversation was going on, he was giving Sherlock his _look_ s, as if he knew what Sherlock was thinking. Of course he didn’t, which made his smug look all the more irritating. As soon as he possibly could, he began to steer John away from his brother.

Sherlock had work to do, seducing his soon-to-be-donor…first he needed to tell John of his…nature.

* * *

 

“It would seem my brother has developed an interest in this Doctor Watson.” Mycroft Holmes smirked as he got into the backseat of the car.

Anthea nodded, tapping a note onto her Blackberry, “Shall we continue shipments to his flat?”

“For the time being, yes.” The British Government nodded, “He has yet to convince the doctor to agree. I doubt the good doctor is aware of the fact he’s living with an immortal.”

“Of course, sir.” She nodded, setting her Blackberry down beside her, “Speaking of which, it’s time sir.”

“Already?” Of course it was, Mycroft was well aware of the time. That could happen after a few centuries.

Anthea didn’t answer; she was already unbuttoning the top buttons of her blouse as she moved from her seat in the car to Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft allowed himself a small smirk, enjoying the feeling of the lovely young woman in his lap. Anthea wasn’t shy either, pressing close to Mycroft as he felt her throat and pulse with his mouth. Sometimes he couldn’t help himself when it came to teasing. Foreplay wasn’t just for sex, after all.

When he did bite into Anthea’s neck, he relished the warm nectar that flooded his mouth. Anthea always did take good care of herself so that her blood was infinitely more satisfying to Mycroft.

After all, the British Government couldn’t run on an empty stomach.

When he was full, Mycroft laid out his assistant on the back seat of the car, letting her rest her head on his lap. She looked slightly dazed, then again, most donors did. He smoothed her hair gently, letting her rest, “Are you hungry?”

“A little…” She murmured.

Mycroft nodded, signaling to the driver to make their way to Anthea’s favorite French restaurant.

Only the best for his donor, after all.

There was a beep from Anthea’s Blackberry. Out of reflex, the assistant picked it up, checking the screen, “We might have a problem sir…” At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, she continued, “Apparently, there is a history of Hunters in Doctor Watson’s family.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand! And more of Hunter!John

John Watson, despite what some might think, was not an idiot.

For one, idiots do not generally make it to become doctors. They can become lawyers, perhaps, or politicians, if they happen to feel the need to spread their idiocy, but not usually doctors. At least, not _good_ doctors. And John Watson would like to think himself a _very_ good doctor.

Second, idiots do not usually last long in the Army. Well, at least not as officers, and certainly not in combat. And while John _had_ gotten himself shot (sometimes there was simply no way to prepare for mere chance and a bit of bad luck), he would insist that it could have been _much_ worse.

And third, idiots usually don’t last very long as Hunters. With all the dangers of monsters and demons and _worse_ in the world, all it took was a single mistake to get one’s head torn off. A fate John would much rather avoid, thank you very much. And when one grew up in a family like the Watsons, where it was perfectly acceptable for a seven year old to handle beheading his first monster and sleepovers usually consisted of making sure there was plenty of salt back away in one’s bag, failure was not an option.

So Captain Doctor John Watson, the Hunter, was well aware of the fact that his new flatmate was a Vampire. If he really wanted to get specific, he would classify Sherlock as a Classical European Vampire (supernatural beings were capable of evolution as well).

John was proud of his knowledge of the Supernatural World, even if he wasn’t exactly the type to go around killing every non-human being he came across. In his youth, John had taken to compiling all his family’s collected records of supernatural beings. He had developed quite the website and blog (not that his therapist knew about _that_ particular blog), and had several contacts who often sent him questions on various beasts.

So when John heard Sherlock describe himself as a Consulting Detective, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps John should describe himself as a Consulting Hunter.

From the moment he met Sherlock, John suspected he was a vampire. The classic signs were there, after all (he suspected Sherlock had Dr. Hooper under a thrall, but it was only a suspicion). The real concrete evidence had come from Mycroft, Sherlock’s apparent brother (and he thought _his_ family was dysfunctional). The older vampire had shown his cards when he tried to put John under a thrall. The experienced Hunter managed to avoid becoming Mycroft’s puppet, and when it had been revealed that he was Sherlock’s brother…well, John could put two and two together.

That being said, John liked to classify himself as a Judgment Hunter: he would only kill if there was proof of a monster harming innocent humans. It was much restrained than the traditional Reaper Hunter, which slew first and asked questions never (it was a running joke in the European Hunter community that another term for a Reaper Hunter was an American Hunter).

So John had no intention of slaying Sherlock unless he learned that he had harmed an innocent.

Or seriously pissed him off.

“Sherlock, are these toes in my jam jar?” John hissed, staring at the offending jar.

“I thought that much was obvious, John. Please refrain from making stupid comments.”

There was a part of John that _desperately_ desired to shove a Holly stake through Sherlock’s heart, just because of the genius’s cheek. But there was another part of John that knew for all of Sherlock’s…quirks, he still used his mind to solve crimes. Which made him someone worth keeping alive.

That didn’t mean he didn’t drive John insane. “And _where_ is my jam? I just bought it _yesterday.”_

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat in his experiment, “I threw it out.” He paused, sending John a glance, “…a bit not good?”

John sighed, “Yes, a bit not good. You know you can _buy_ jars for your experiments, right?”

The vampire blinked, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. For a centuries old vampire (or at least, that’s what John assumed), Sherlock was oddly naïve.

“Just ask next time.” John shook his head, screwing the lid back on to the jar. What he wasn’t expecting was a raw edge on the lid cutting across his palm. “Damn!”

It was a cliché really, cutting oneself with a vampire in the room. John quickly grabbed a dishrag and pressed it to the open wound, hoping to stop the bleeding before it got too messy. From the corner of his eye, John could see Sherlock standing stone still. The vampire had even stopped pretending to breathe. But other than that, there was no reaction.

That being said, John was taking no chances, “I think I have a first aid kit in my room…” he mumbled, leaving the rag by the sink while he went to bandage his wound. He had had worse wounds in his life, but better safe than sorry when it came to vampires.

When John returned to the kitchen, he noticed one thing was different from when he left.

The rag was gone. And there was a slight bulge in Sherlock’s jacket pocket.

So now John was aware of three things:

One, his flatmate was a vampire.

Two, Sherlock had a taste for John’s blood, but seemed to have a good grasp on his control.

Three, if John _ever_ caught Sherlock watching him while he slept, he was going to stake him, judgment be damned.

* * *

 

It was late, but what was sleep to a vampire? Especially one as old as Mycroft Holmes.

The eldest Holmes brother was sitting in his lavish bed, poring over one John Watson’s file. How had he _missed_ the Hunter heritage when he first researched the doctor? There was no indication of it on paper.

Well, that just made Anthea that much more of a Godsend.

The young woman was fast asleep beside him after giving enough blood to fill a small wine glass. Mycroft was sipping the blood slowly as he re-read the doctor’s file.

Something would need to be done.

With a small smirk, Mycroft picked up his phone and pressed a number on his speed dial.

“Good evening Detective Inspector…I have a job for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhoh! What's Mycroft gunna do? And how does Lestrade play into this? Let me know your ideas!


	3. Chapter 3

John should have known from the moment they took this case that it wasn’t going to end well. His first clue was Sebastian Wilkes and just how slimy the man was, not to mention how insecure Sherlock obviously felt around him. It was certainly a bad sign when John had a greater desire to slay the human in the room than the vampire.

It had only gone downhill from there. Losing Soo Lin Yao had been a blow to John’s sense of honor as a soldier and as a hunter. He had left a human woman unprotected to check on a vampire’s wellbeing, and as a result, she was killed.

He had hoped that his date with Sarah would take his mind off of his conflicted thoughts, but apparently Sherlock was not about to let him have a moment of peace.

And to top it all off, the Black Lotus had decided to kidnap him and Sarah under the assumption that he was Sherlock. John had to resist the urge to roll his eyes when Shan made the comment about the only reason he hadn’t been assassinated yet was because they wanted him alive.

Heaven forbid these assassins get a photograph of their supposed target.

Sherlock had arrived, thankfully, but John was dismayed to see Sherlock struggling against Shan’s henchmen. He knew very well just how strong a vampire was supposed to be, especially one as old as John suspected Sherlock was. The only feasible explanation for Sherlock’s weakness was his lack of feeding. It was obvious now, Sherlock always put off sleep and food (though no doubt Sherlock was trying to convince John he ate like a human). And while John knew that there was no way those humans could kill Sherlock (not unless any of them had a stake made of Holly wood), he really wanted to get free before the spear could be launched from the crossbow and into Sarah.

There was nothing for it, John would have to save Sarah himself. Kicking the crossbow had seemed like the most logical option, the fact that it was now pointed at one of the henchmen was an added bonus.

Unfortunately, it was in that moment that Sherlock had thrown his weight back against the henchmen, stepping directly into the path of the crossbow. John watched as the spear impaled them both, killing the henchmen easily and seriously wounding Sherlock.

Sarah had been hysterical, desperately working at untying her bonds. In those few moments, John knew he needed a plan, one that would protect Sherlock and John’s way of life.

He never imagined he’d see the day when he’d be saving a vampire’s life (though this was the second time now, he supposed). He urged Sarah to untie him, then go and call for help while he saw to Sherlock. John knew he’d need Sarah gone in order for him to save Sherlock.

The moment she was gone, he rushed to Sherlock’s side, grabbing the spear and wrenching it free. It spoke of just how malnourished Sherlock was by just how little blood emptied from his stomach. He must be starving then.

John knelt by Sherlock, unbuttoning his shirt as he did so, “Sherlock, stay with me. I’m going to need you to drink from me, alright? If the police or the ambulance sees you like this, they’ll know you’re not human.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously, surprised at John’s actions, “And you know…” He paused, his eyes lighting up slightly in recognition, “Hunter…”

“Yes yes, you finally figured it out.” John rolled his eyes, grabbing Sherlock’s head and pressing it into the crook of his neck, “Now drink enough to heal yourself. I don’t know how much longer we have, and we need a plan to get out of this.”

There was a low hum from Sherlock’s cold lips, causing John to shiver. He knew what would come next, but he still gasped when he felt the sting and heard the sharp _pop_ of Sherlock’s fangs sinking into his jugular. It took all of his control to resist the instinct to attack Sherlock (no doubt Harry would be furious if she could see him now).

But John could see his blood was working, already Sherlock’s flesh was knitting itself back together, closing the wound. By the time Sherlock drew away from John’s neck, he was feeling light headed.

“We need a plan to get out of this.” John muttered, trying to clear the headache forming already.

Sherlock shook his head, “No need. No doubt by now, Mycroft has intercepted any orders dispatching medical and law enforcement. The ambulance coming will belong to him, they’ll simply take me to his home.”

John rolled his eyes. Mycroft was, if anything, resourceful, “Of course.”

* * *

 

Sherlock had been right about the ambulance, obviously. John could easily tell that the people loading Sherlock onto a gurney were no medical professionals (even if they could fool a majority of the people there). Though the police had still showed up, Dimmock looked especially alarmed at the state of the crime scene.

“You know we have to take you in for questioning, don’t you John?” Dimmock had asked him, trying to be apologetic. John was well aware of the situation, even if he was simply too exhausted to respond.

“I think that can wait until morning, don’t you think, Dimmock?”

John knew that voice. He and Dimmock turned to see Lestrade making his way toward them. It was surprising to see the DI there, considering the fact it wasn’t his case. But considering the fact that Sherlock was involved, John wasn’t going to let anything be outside the realm of possibility.

“He’s a witness.” Dimmock frowned, “I need his statement.”

Lestrade nodded, “I know that. But look at him, he’s dead on his feet. I’m sure he’ll be of more use to you in the morning, after he’s rested.”

There was a moment when the two Detective Inspectors stared at each other. Then, Dimmock nodded, “You’re right.” He looked at John, “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll question you in the morning.”

Greg nodded, clapping John on the shoulder, “Come on John. I’ll drive you back to Baker Street.”

John wasn’t in much position to argue, even if he found it strange that Dimmock would ignore protocol so easily. But perhaps Lestrade just had the right influence on the younger DI, and the chance to get back to his bed and recover from Sherlock feeding from him was too tempting to resist. So he didn’t question it.

They didn’t speak on the drive back to Baker Street, which John was grateful for. He didn’t want to have to say anything until he and Sherlock had a story to work on.

“…John? John!”

John blinked, realizing that they were parked outside 221b, and Greg was shaking his arm, “Come on, you look like you’re about to pass out.” He smiled, “Let’s get you inside.”

“Yeah…I guess it has been a long night.” John chuckled, getting out of the car. He even allowed Greg to follow him up to the flat, if only to reassure the DI that he would be alright. “I don’t suppose you’d want some coffee or tea?”

Greg shook his head, “No, I’ll be alright.”

John nodded, turning away from Greg, intending to get himself a glass of water to try and rehydrate. But as John’s gaze drifted over the main room’s mirror, he noticed something.

It was him and Greg, reflected of course. But as he examined Greg’s reflected image, he realized…it wasn’t fully opaque, and the more he focused on it, the more translucent it became, like…

 _Like someone was trying to project an illusion of a reflection_.

As John looked back at Greg, he realized that it wasn’t the older DI’s charm or influence that had convinced Dimmock to release John without giving evidence or a statement.

Lestrade had placed the younger DI under a thrall.

There was a tense moment when neither man did anything. John knew, to stand a chance, he’d have to get his stake hidden in his bedroom. And even then, his chances of taking Lestrade were slim.

Like John had ever let the odds influence him.

John feinted the same time Lestrade lunged for him, sending the DI sprawling on the floor. But John’s victory was short lived as the vampire was up on his feet once again, tackling John to the floor.

If it had been any other day, John would have been able to wrestle out of Lestrade’s hold, and even held his own in a fight. But Sherlock feeding from him had drained him of his strength, leaving him to weakly paw at Lestrade as the older man (though how much older might be a mystery John would never solve) straddled his chest.

“I really liked you John.” Lestrade sighed, shaking his head as he pinned John’s hands above his head, “I really thought you and Sherlock would be an unstoppable team…” Now the fangs came out, and the brown of his iris’s bleeding into red, “But you have to know that I just can’t let a Hunter hurt him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhoh! John's in trouble! And Greg's a vampire! This could turn out to be bad!
> 
> What should happen next?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I couldn't just leave you guys with that cliffhanger!

Of all the ways that John imagined dying, this wasn’t one of them. Oh sure, a vampire about to drain him dry seemed very likely considering his family’s line of work; it was almost a certainty that John would die of supernatural causes.

What John _never_ imagined, though, was that he would be too weak to fight off his attacker because he had _donated_ blood to another vampire. It made John want to curse his bleeding heart (no pun intended), Sherlock had been his friend and John had wanted to save him.

Now that good will and trust had bitten him in the ass. Harry would ashamed of him (or absolutely livid, it was a tossup between the two).  And as John looked up at Lestrade’s red eyes and his fangs merely inches from John’s face, he was torn between being furious at himself and hoping that Sherlock would be alright.

There was a low buzz that permeated the tension of the room, followed by a low chiming melody. The red in Lestrade’s eyes bled away, and his fangs shrank back as he bit back a small groan, “Damnit Mycroft…” He growled, using his free hand to grab the mobile phone from his pocket and place it to his ears, “Hello?”

Of course Mycroft was behind this. John should have guessed from the moment that he realized the older Holmes was a vampire. After all, he had been willing to kidnap John simply because he _might_ be Sherlock’s flatmate, he should have guessed that once Mycroft learned that John was a hunter, he would have taken steps to eliminate him.

John tried to struggle against Lestrade’s one hand that was holding his wrists, but considering the fact that Lestrade was a vampire and John was weak from blood loss, it wasn’t much of a contest.

Lestrade looked partially annoyed with the phone call, “I’m doing the job right now…what the hell do you mean ‘no?’ You’re the one who…” He paused, looking down at John almost apologetically before continuing his conversation with the elder Holmes, “Sherlock said _what now_?”

The vampiric DI shifted his phone so it was cradled between his ear and his shoulder, his hand moving to John’s chin, holding it firmly in his grasp. Despite John’s struggling, Lestrade was easily able to manipulate John’s head to the side, getting a good look at his neck.

“Well son of a bitch…” Lestrade murmured, examining the bitemarks on John’s neck. The DI moved off of John, shaking his head as he continued to speak to Mycroft, “You have a hell of a sense of timing, you know that, Mycroft? If you had called _10 minutes later…”_

As Lestrade became more engrossed in his conversation, he made a mistake: he turned his back away from John.

It was a mistake John intended to exploit.

There was no way John was going to be able to get up to his room and fetch his hunting weapons before Lestrade noticed what John was doing.

But then John caught sight of something on the messy floor. The black shape of the gun he didn’t technically own. Well, apparently Black Lotus had been good for something when they had discarded his weapon so hap hazardously.

It wouldn’t kill Lestrade, but it would sure as hell put him down for a while.

With what little strength John had left, he bolted across the living room, diving for his gun and turning it on the vampire in his flat.

It was a piss-poor shot compared to his work on Jefferson Hope, the bullet caught the DI in the shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the floor. Panting heavily, John made his way back to Lestrade, picking up the phone from where it fell. “I don’t appreciate people trying to kill me, Mycroft.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, “ _…Duly noted, Doctor Watson.”_ Came Mycroft’s clipped voice, the posh bastard, “ _I don’t suppose the Detective Inspector is still alive?”_

“He’s still undead, if that’s what you mean, you and I both know that bullets don’t kill vampires.” John breathed heavily, settling himself into his chair, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t finish the job.”

_“Because, Doctor Watson...you and the Detective Inspector are among a very select group…you’re Sherlock’s friends.”_

“You were sure ready to let me die just a few minutes ago.”

“ _I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t_ kill _my brother until a few minutes ago.”_

“Come on, Mycroft, don’t be slow.” John hissed, “If I had wanted to kill Sherlock…it wouldn’t have been the cabbie I shot that night.”He snapped the mobile shut, turning his attention to Lestrade.

The vampire hadn’t been able to move or heal since he was shot. Which was exactly what John had intended. John kept the gun trained on Lestrade, “So how do you fit into this, Lestrade? I knew Sherlock and Mycroft were vampires, but you were a surprise. Usually vampires within the same coven are around the same age, but you…you don’t look like you’re even a century old yet. You still have some skin pigment in you.”

Lestrade groaned, “I’m not even 50, John…” He winced, trying to move, “What did you do to me? Why can’t I move?”

“Come on, Greg, 50 years as a vampire and you’ve never had to deal with a Hunter before?” John raised an eyebrow. “The bullet’s are coated in dead man’s blood, it’s poison to vampire, almost like a paralytic. You should know that by now.”

“No John, I meant 50 years total. I’ve only been a vampire for five years.” The DI sighed, “As for how I fit into this…Mycroft is my Sire…he’s the one who turned me.”

That piqued John’s curiosity, “Mycroft doesn’t strike me as the type to have a lot of Childe running around…”

“You’re right.” Greg looked at John, “It’s just me.”

John frowned, “Why you?”

A weak chuckle sounded from Lestrade’s paralyzed throat, “Do you even need to ask? Sherlock, that’s why.” The DI nodded, “Got myself stuck in a fight between Sherlock and who I thought was his dealer, ended up with a hole in my chest from a wooden stake.”

“You stopped a Hunter from killing Sherlock.” John blinked, “But you didn’t realize what you had gotten yourself into…”

“Not at all…” Greg smiled softly, “The Hunter didn’t hit my heart, but I was still dying. That’s when I heard saw this man I had never met before…telling me how grateful he was to me for saving his brother’s life…and in exchange, he asked if I wanted to live.”

“And you did.” John nodded, “When it’s put that way, who wouldn’t accept Mycroft’s offer?” He watched Lestrade carefully, “But knowing what you do now…about being immortal…a vampire…do you regret it?”

Lestrade attempted to shake his head, the result was him lazy flopping his head towards John, “Not one bit.”

John sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, “I have to ask this, as a Hunter, Greg…have you killed anyone?”

“You know I have, John.” Greg smirked slightly, “I’m a Detective Inspector…the job happens. If you are asking if I’ve killed in the context of my vampiric nature…you would have been my first.”

“Yeah, still not happy about that, Greg.” John shook his head.

Lestrade raise an eyebrow, “If Mycroft hadn’t stopped me, I would have only killed once for the Holmes’s…you’ve already killed for Sherlock twice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think of Lestrade? What do you think should happen next?


End file.
